


between the devil and the deep blue sea

by FlyMeAway



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, gay action movie, squint and it's a kingsman crossover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:00:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27962687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyMeAway/pseuds/FlyMeAway
Summary: “Fuck that,” Q declares, and he finds himself smiling. “If there’s a bomb on this yacht, you’re going to need help defusing it.”
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 14
Kudos: 77
Collections: Mi6 Cafe Prompt Fills





	between the devil and the deep blue sea

**Author's Note:**

> This is my interpretation for the MI6 Cafe Anon Gift Exchange prompt: He had thought jumping off the yacht was the only thing that could save them. But the ocean is vast and deep and it might have been better if they had died in the explosion.
> 
> Special thanks to Espritneo for the beta reading and Ksan for the encouragement.

Q never thought he’d die valiantly.

For that matter, Q never gave too much thought to the manner of his death, but a part of him always knew it wouldn’t be at a ripe old age. For most of his life, he’d managed to make his way into places where he wasn’t supposed to be. Too young, too smart, knows too much. He’d gotten his hands dirty by making technology that was likely never meant for the purpose of peace, and shaking hands with people who likely did not use that technology for the greater good. There were at least five governmental intelligence agencies on his tail – and perhaps a few private ones – ever since the first time he’d hacked into the CIA’s mainframe, when he was thirteen. 

He’d had his _own_ set of morals – and yes, the anti-establishment streak with which he was afflicted may have gotten him into trouble more than once, and maybe he’d made mistakes which would have cost a lot of people their lives if he hadn’t fixed those mistakes in time – but he’d never tried to be the hero of the story. He did what he could to live with himself and disappear into the shadows when things became too messy.

So it’s almost ironic that he finds himself here, in the belly of a fancy yacht in the middle of the North Sea, with a counter on the computer telling him how much time has left to live. With his fingers racing on the keyboard, Q is trying to delay the inevitable, to buy the passengers enough time before said yacht is blown to smithereens.

He hopes it’s quick enough that he won’t feel pain.

His eyes are tearing up behind his glasses, but Q doesn’t want to close them, too afraid that behind his pupils he will only see the terrifying infinite blue of the ocean around them. His hands are shaking and as he raises his head from the screen, he find Bond standing in front of him, offering him a hand.

Q met the broad-shouldered, blond spy just a few hours ago, and right now the bloke has an open, bleeding gash on his jaw, and his right eye bruised and swollen. His clothes and his skin are covered with the blood of all those terrorists he took out right in front of Q’s eyes.

His eyes are a shining azure when he stares at Q and asks, “how much time can you buy us?”

~

He’s supposed to give a talk in half an hour, and he’s not exactly nervous, just really wants this lecture to be over. The only reason he volunteered to speak at this conference was the the necessary funding to launch his start-up, and what better way to get those funds than to flaunt his achievements in front of a ridiculously rich people at a conference on a fancy yacht.

Q takes a deep breath that he doesn’t want to call a sigh, and runs his hand through his hair. By now, he’s fairly used to wearing expensive suits – even enjoys it, some might say – but the suffocating heating in the room makes him want to take off his jacket, loose the tightness of his bowtie. He leans against the bar, not really listening to the woman currently speaking (something trendy about green energy that he’s heard _so many_ times before), when a glass of martini lands next to his elbow.

“Seems like you need it,” the bartender says.

The drink looks like it came out of a movie production – a perfect coil of lemon peel floating in a clear drink in a tall martini glass, the alcohol cold enough to start sweating through the glass – and when Q looks up, he thinks the exact same thing about the man who made the drink.

He’s blonde and tan, built like a brick wall and _stunning_. Q wets his lips. “Thank you.”

It takes a moment or two where Q wonders if the conference organizers are so rich they actually paid supermodels to work in the bar, right before he realizes he’s able to recognize the glasses the man is wearing – something in the design of the black frame, in the specific sheen of the glass.

The look on his face probably gives it away, because the blonde bartender raises an eyebrow. “Find anything interesting?”

“I have a tendency to do that, yeah,” and if it sounds like flirting, Q isn’t going to dwell on it.

A small smirk that doesn’t give anything away, and the bartender says, “Have a good evening, Mr. Pauli.”

~

Although he scheduled to speak in less them ten minutes, Q’s curiosity gets the better of him.

When the bartender disappears from the main hall through the staff doors, Q waits a few moments before following his footsteps. He looks for him in the kitchen area, passing by a few crewmembers who might wonder what one of the conference attendees is doing there. As he walks outside into the hall, Q finally manage to locate him, and see his target going through a door to a small stairway leading him up to the deck.

As Q opens the door and walks through, he suddenly finds himself pinned against the door, a muscular forearm pushed against his collarbone and the blonde bartender smirking down at him. 

“You’re not that good at spying on people, are you?”

Q’s own smirk is no less arrogant. “Corect me if I’m wrong, but spying seems to be _your_ expertise.”

The spy releases his hold on Q and takes half a step backwards, fixing the cufflinks on his tuxedo. He’s holding himself differently all of a sudden, and Q understands that now he can finally see past the fake identity.

“How did you know?” he asks.

That actually catches Q by surprise. “I was expecting a denial. Maybe you’re not such a good spy, after all.”

“It felt like the right moment to expose my cards.”

Q arches an eyebrow.

The blonde man shoots him a challenging look. 

“The glasses,” Q finally says, touching his own almost inadvertently. “unobtrusive one-sided lens-screen technology. Only about six people in the world who could make those.”

“Of course there are. And I assume you’re one of those six?”

“I invented them.”

Bond’s lips curl into a smirk. “I never stood a chance, eh?” and Q is sharp enough to hear the flirting in his voice, and he’s about to reply when the spy offer him his hand. “Bond. James Bond.”

“Christopher Pauli, but you already know that.” Q shakes his hand firmly. “Why are you here, Mister Bond?”

Bond doesn’t reply. He looks around and then uses his gaze to instructs Q to follow him up the stairs. Q – curious as usual and with an unexplained attraction to getting into trouble – takes him up on the offer.

There’s not a soul on the deck, which is awash with a bright yellow light that makes the horizon seem infinitely black. The salty smell of the sea hits Q’s nose, and the breeze rushes through his hair, caressing his face. He feels like he can finally breathe again. Bond leads them to a hidden dark corner on the deck, inspects his surroundings through his high tech spy glasses.

When Bond speaks, his whisper is accompanied by the sound of the waves below them.

“Someone’s trying to blow up the ship.”

~

Q’s evening has certainly taken a surprising turn.

When Bond says he suspects the organizer of the cruise, Q doesn’t hesitate for a moment and pulls out his cellphone (because Q’s apparently a part of this now, and this – well, this is a bit more interesting than trying to impress rich donors. Q has the money anyway). He doesn’t really know the organizer, but it’s not a problem hacking the systems of his organization. After a few minutes, he finds a blocked channel but bypasses its security without an issue. He’s still not sure why Bond is so carefree about telling him all about his mission, though Q has already deduced that Bond is not exactly the typical spy. The fact that he gave him his real name almost immediately – something even Q doesn’t do – is enough of a clue.

Bond looks at the screen from behind his shoulder, standing a bit too close for a person you just met. Q can feel the heat coming off Bond’s body against his back, as palpable as a touch, and he finds himself fighting the urge to lean back into him. When Q discovers a connection to several criminal organizations and a conglomerate responsible for manufacturing weapons and explosives, he can feel Bond’s body tense.

“So the plan is to hear ideas from the greatest in manufacturing technology –”

“And then drown them all, yes,” Q confirms and turns around to look at Bond. “They’re waiting for the conference to be over.”

The spy in front of him straightens his suit jacket and then fixes the glasses on the bridge of his nose. Q likes the way he conducts himself. “Thank you, Mister Pauli,” he says with a steady tone. “I’ll take it from here.”

“Fuck that,” Q declares, and he finds himself smiling. “If there’s a bomb on this yacht, you’re going to need help defusing it.”

Bond looks him over, something like interest or even amusement in his azure eyes. He pulls out one of his guns and hands it to Q, grip first.

Q has only ever used weapons in a very artificial environment – examining palmprint sensors in gun grips, a technology he invented a few years ago – and even if he has sadly seen people get shot in the head through security cameras more than once, Q has never been the one to pull the trigger. The thought he might have to do that now makes his blood freeze, and he realizes he’s more terrified than he thought, trying to hide the shiver passing through his body.

And yet, Q nods, feeling the adrenaline coursing through his body, tingling in his fingertips as he takes the gun offered to him. He catches Bond’s eyes and cocks the weapon.

For the first time in a long while, he has no clue what’s going to happen.

The ship rocks below their feet, the waves hitting the side of the ship with a thunderous roar, and Bond doesn’t break eye contact.

~

Pro tip: the best strategy to drown a gigantic yacht as quickly as possible is putting the explosion as close as you can to the engine room.

Well, at least that’s the theory Q and Bond are going with right now, as they take the main elevator down to the halls leading to the belly of the ship.

Bond cocks his gun and takes off his glasses, throwing them on the elevator floor – ready to fight. Q wonders if his handler often needs to contend with the way Bond treats his spy equipment. If he had to guess, he’d wager a lot of it doesn’t come back in one piece, or, well, at all. That’s not Q’s problem, anyway, so he really doesn’t care.

Q leans against the elevator wall and turns the gun in his hands, getting used to its weight. “I thought your organization liked using umbrellas.”

“I’ve always preferred guns.”

“Classic bloke.”

Bond’s hair has been lightly tousled by the breeze on deck, a small flaw in the composed gentleman look, and Q tries not to stare, fighting the ridiculous urge to pass his fingers through Bond’s blonde hair. It seems to him Bond looks more stunning every time Q looks at him, and the fact he can now guess how many weapons he’s hiding in his tuxedo jacket (which fits him so, so nicely) doesn’t help. Apparently Q’s attracted to lethal men now. Or maybe it’s just Bond.

And then he remembers that if he’s not focused on the mission ahead of him, they’re going to blow up in the middle of the ocean.

He clears his throat and looks away.

When the elevator doors open on the bottom floor, Bond manages to notice the guards before him. Before Q can even realize what’s happening, Bond grabs his hand and pulls Q into him, out of the elevator and into the white hallway, pinned to the wall with Bond’s body pressed against him for the second time in less than half an hour.

Q’s breath is taken away and his heartbeat accelerates in his chest, drumming in his ears. Bond manages to whisper, “trust me,” before he cradles Q’s jaw with a firm hand and kisses him fiercely.

To hell with being focused on the mission, then.

Bond runs his thumb over Q’s Adam's apple, the band of his Omega rubbing against the crook of his neck, and Q forgets how to breathe, instinctively kissing back, rough and fast. Bond makes a low sound from deep in his throat, something between a held breath and a moan, and his lips curl into a smirk Q both loves and hates to feel against his lips. His other hand rests on Q’s waist, pulling his body closer.

Q’s eyes shut just as he hears one of the guards shout something at them, and Bond lets his neck go to pull the gun and shoot at them.

The shot rings in Q’s ears, and the smell of gunpowder fills his nostrils. There’s a _splash_ sound and bodies which fall to the ground, and even without looking Q guesses Bond hit his targets exactly. Bond’s mouth is still warm against his, and now he’s pushing a thigh between Q’s legs, not seeming like he’s planning to disengage any time soon. Q grabs at Bond’s short hair, pulls him closer, kisses him deep and long and wonderfully. His head is full of fog, his whole body is shivering.

“I thought this whole scene was supposed to spare us from _that_ ,” Q says as they disentangle, pointing his head towards the bleeding guard on the floor.

Bond is still catastrophically close. His breaths are warm against Q’s skin, eyes are fixed on Q’s lips. “Was it?”

He grins so bastardly that Q has to steal another kiss, take Bond’s lower lip between his teeth, coaxing Bond into making _that_ sound again.

The alarm has been tripped, loud and washing the whole hallway in a flickering red light. Backup is going to be here any minute.

~

The steel doors which lead to the engine room require a security code and a retina scan to open. Q could hack both those systems using only his phone, but for that to happen he needs to stay alive for at least two more minutes. That seems like it’s going to be a challenge when at least five guards who popped up in the hallway start running towards them and shooting without asking questions.

Apparently, the whole security team on the yacht is made of fucking terrorists.

Panic starts seeping in through the smokescreen of adrenaline coursing through his body. The realization that he’s about to die hits him like a hammer to the head, like claws grabbing and turning his guts around. Q tries to ground himself, focus on the blue lines of code running on the screen of his cellphone, ignore the fact his fingers are shaking, that his throat is closing in distress.

Bond is standing against his back, a gun in each hand, a human shield. He mutters, “could you do it any faster?”

“As if you could do this yourself,” Q mutters back, biting the words off. “I don’t understand how you thought –”

A bullet brushes his left shoulder.

Q feels the blood gushing out of his body before the pain abruptly arrives – like an electric shock, convulsing his organs. Drops of blood spray his jaw, his glasses, his cellphone screen. His legs betray him and he falls to the floor, crashing against the wall. Bond shouts something, then, but Q’s heartbeat is so loud in his ears and he cannot decipher the words. He closes his eyes and hears only the gunshots, smells only the metallic scent of blood flowing from the wound in his shoulder.

Q’s not certain how much time passes, but now there’s a warm hand on his cheek, fingers which stabilize his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He opens his eyes to see the concern wash away from Bond’s face, kneeling beside him.

Q opens his mouth to speak and finds the stifling in his throat prevents him from making a sound. “I know what you’re going to say,” he tells Bond in a rough voice, talking feels like trying to swallow gravel. “You need me to save the day.”

“You’re unbelievable,” his field of vision is blurry, but Q manages to catch Bond’s little smirk. “You should be a spy.”

“I hate guns,” Q responds, gesturing towards his bloody shoulder. “Did you kill them all?”

Bond has an ugly gash on his face now. Q wonders how much of the blood on his shirt belongs to Q himself. “I’m sure there’ll be more coming.”

“I better get to work, then.”

~

They manage to get into the room and find the bomb. It’s controlled by what seems like a computer from thirty years ago, large and ungainly, wires trailing everywhere. It might be a tricky one, but Q knows that as long as there's a remote control, you can hack it and stop the explosion.

The thing is, after less than a minute he realizes he can’t do it. Resetting the timer needs to be done manually.

Q has to stay here.

“Is there a way to get everyone off the boat?” he asks, trying to mask the terror in his voice.

“MI5 and MI6 have already sent helicopters and lifeboats. We’re lucky we’re not very far from shore.”

“You need to go make sure everyone gets out of here alive.”

Q sees realization dawn. Bond seems angry, all of a sudden. “I’m not –”

“Bond.” Q says, his mouth narrow and his voice dark, decisive. “Go save everyone.”

~

Bond comes back.

Bond should have called Q and told him that everyone was a safe distance away. _He_ was supposed to be on a lifeboat, far away from here while Q was blown to bits.

He wasn’t supposed to come back, for fuck’s sake. Q had already made peace with his heroic death.

Bond reaches his hand out and asks, “how much time can you buy us?” and Q hates him for it. Hates the determination in his azure eyes, the tenseness in his shoulders.

“The best I can do is five minutes,” he answers slowly. He thinks he can smell smoke. Maybe Bond just smells like gunpowder “Drowning feels like a much slower and more cruel death, Bond.”

It might be his mind playing tricks on him, but the boat seems to rock harder by the ocean waves. His head is spinning, likely from blood loss, inability to adjust his breathing and get some air in his lungs. The pain running through his shoulder is starting to fade into numbness. He thinks he might lose consciousness any minute now. He thinks that might be for the best.

He’s shaking so hard.

“I’d rather sail through Scylla than lose the whole ship in Charybdis,” Bond says, and Q finds the serious tone incredibly humorous. The gorgeous spy Q met today just referenced The Odyssey _,_ and _seriously_ , if Q didn’t have to keep his hands on the keyboard to stop them from blowing up, he’d strip him here and now and fuck him on the floor.

If Bond catches any of that in Q’s stare, he doesn’t say anything. He puts his hand on Q’s.

For the second time tonight he asks, “trust me.”

Q thinks James Bond has certainly known for a while that he was going to die valiantly.

He turns his hand so he grabs Bond's palm, squeezing tightly.

~

Q has never run so fast in his life.

He doesn’t look at his watch. He doesn’t keep silent count. He only listens to his heartbeat, their steps on the wooden floor, the sound of the waves as they get out and stand on the deck.

He hasn’t let go of Bond’s hand since they started running.

Bond tightens his grip, pulling Q a little bit closer. They're standing right on the edge. It's a long way down. “It’s our best shot.”

Q doesn't say anything, just stares at the man in front of him. The expression on Bond’s face is unreadable, but his breaths are compressed, flat. His hair is stuck to his sweaty forehead, and he seems pale and tired, empty, as if he lost something integral to that spy facade he was wearing all night. Q just wants – to save him, to put that determination back in his eyes.

“What’s your real name?” Bond asks suddenly.

“I don’t have a real name,” Q has never answered that question so sincerely his whole life. “But the people I trust –” his voice cracks, tears choking his throat, “call me _Q_.”

He thinks about Bond calling him that in his head for the last few seconds of his life and it makes his heart miss a beat. Though he feels the urge to do so, he doesn’t kiss Bond. He doesn’t want to think about a final kiss.

Bond pulls him close, wrapping him in his arms. “Hold tight, Q. No matter what, don't let go”

They jump.

~

The impact of hitting the water is so strong, Q wonders if they didn’t actually explode. He feels all of his bones buckle, shatter; like a marionette whose strings were let go, utterly limp. The pain is so unbearable he doesn’t know if he’s still conscious. The water whips at his body – tiny shards of ice which puncture his skin, stinging at the open wound in his shoulder, freezing him from within – and then drags him and Bond like a vacuum, down into the darkness.

There’s a bright, white light, and a strong blast. Q doesn’t hear the explosion, just feels his body tossed by the waves, strong torrents which threaten to dislodge his limbs, filling his mouth with saltwater. With the last sliver of consciousness, he closes his fist around the fabric of Bond’s shirt, wrapping his other arm around his waist, and grabs on for dear life.

~

When he opens his eyes, there’s the thundering sound of helicopter blades chopping through the air, a bluish white light flickering over their heads. James holds him above the water, hands around his waist, his nose deep in his neck. Someone pulls him upwards, away from James, away from the water, and Q couldn’t resist even if he wanted to.

“It’s alright, Q. I’ve got you,” says the woman holding him against the helicopter’s rope ladder. Later, Q will learn that she’s one of MI6’s Double-0 agents, that she helps James save all those people on the yacht, that she told James she’d save him if they got away. In the days to follow, 007 will come and visit his hospital bed, and she’s going to offer him a job with MI6, and Q – Q is going to say no. But he’ll remember he owes her his life.

In a few days, he’ll get discharged from the hospital with nowhere to go, no idea what to do next, and find James waiting for him in the street, leaning against an upgraded spy car with arms crossed and a small, teasing grin. Q won't think twice before he grabs the lapel of James' shirt and pulls him in for a kiss, one that won’t feel like it’s their last.

But right now, he’s looking back into the water, starting to breathe again only when he sees James climb after them. Q reaches a hand out to grab him, and he doesn’t even know why – it’s not like he can help James Bond climb into the helicopter when he can’t even keep his own head up. And yet, he reaches a hand and James grabs it, grabs him, rolls to Q’s side and wraps his body, feeling wet and heavy, his fingers frozen against Q’s arms.

For now, Q closes his eyes, focusing on James’ breathing.

**Author's Note:**

> In my mind, Nomi is 007 in this story.


End file.
